


Yet to Observe

by whirlingdervish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7569268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlingdervish/pseuds/whirlingdervish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place right after TAB-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No BETA or Brit-pick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes up must come down.

     “Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, looking more sincere than John had ever seen him, and he found it frankly alarming, “look out for him.”

     Several hours later, after Sherlock had miraculously convinced Lady Smallwood and friends to let Moriarty make the first move, John was seated on the edge of the green bathtub in 221B while Sherlock violently emptied his stomach into the toilet. Mary stood watching, uninvited, from the doorway with a glass of water at the ready.

  
     “He should be in hospital,” she said disapprovingly, but genuinely worried.

  
     Sherlock’s groan echoed in the porcelain bowl. His overdose had come crashing down on him hard, and although he hadn’t taken as much as John had feared, John had made sure he hadn’t let Sherlock get another step inside his mind palace since disembarking the small plane.

  
     “I don’t disagree,” John replied, taking the proffered glass from his wife, “but do you honestly think there’s a hospital that can hold Sherlock against his will? He bloody climbed out a window after you…” John stopped, swallowing the rest of the sentence with a grimace, and turned his eyes back to his heaving friend. Mary didn’t bother to look ashamed- she was too pragmatic to argue about it again, not now. 

  
    “Florida,” Sherlock’s voice, a mere croak, broke the strained silence.  
Sherlock reached to flush the toilet with a shaking hand. John handed him the water and watched as Sherlock sipped carefully. Florida. Where he had met Mrs. Hudson all those years ago- of course, John realized belatedly, he was in rehab. Mycroft’s doing, probably. Cut him off from all familiar ties an ocean away.

  
     “Well that’s obviously out of the question,” John said, the idea of Sherlock leaving again turning him cold. Sherlock alone, in a miserably hot and humid American rehab facility, a thousand miles away while John was left to wait and worry, no, the thought was preposterous. “You’re in the middle of a case, yeah? And you’ve got friends here to help you through it.”

  
     “He needs help, John.” Mary said quietly.

  
     John looked down at the very sallow and miserable Sherlock, who held his gaze. Why did Sherlock always take Mary’s side? It was infuriating, like they had a secret language of their own that John would never learn. For Sherlock to admit that perhaps he needed help was to admit that the man was not indestructible, and he couldn't entertain that thought. John suppressed the irrational desire to rub his thumb along that sharp cheekbone, to trace the dark circles under his eyes.

  
     “You want to go to Florida, Sherlock?” John asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  
      Sherlock glanced at Mary, and it was like a silent conversation because Mary nodded knowingly and backed out of the small bathroom to give them a moment of privacy.

  
    “Sherlock?”

  
     “I’ve made a habit of lying to Mycroft, I’ve been trying to perfect it my whole life- even so, I don’t think he’s ever had a hard time discerning the truth. You- on the other hand…”

  
     “Right, I don’t observe,” John scoffed bitterly.

  
     “I’m not ok, John,” Sherlock confessed quietly .

  
      “Sherlock,” and even to John's own ears it sounded like he was pleading. For what, exactly ? John wondered, for him not to confess anything because the intimacy of an honest conversation was too much for him? Because John couldn’t handle the fact that his best friend was not as indestructible as he claimed?

  
    “Moriarty knew,” Sherlock said.

  
     “No.” John interrupted him- not wanting to talk about Moriarty. John hated that Moriarty, after everything still held so much power over his friend, even from beyond the grave.

     Sherlock looked down, his dark lashes veiling his verdigris eyes. The gesture was almost demure and John hated it.

  
     “He was right, all along. Despite everything- every domino I’ve toppled, it still comes around to the fact that he knew how to defeat me. It was inevitable.”

  
     “Shut up, Sherlock,” John seethed fiercely, taking Sherlock’s face in his small hands and forcing the detective to meet his gaze, “He has not defeated you-"

  
     “He has!” Sherlock’s voice alarmingly close to a wail, “He has John!”

  
      “No,” John shook his head, his fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck as though willing Sherlock to understand. Sherlock shook his head, his eyes clenched tightly shut, “He hasn’t won! You’re alive- you’re here!”

  
    “You're wrong!” Sherlock exclaimed, effectively silencing John, who was dismayed to see tears on his friend’s cheeks. “You heard him say it too, John,” Sherlock argued, his eyes still closed, “at the pool.”

  
     John, who had, for good reason, tried valiantly to forget the incident, suddenly heard Moriarty’s lilting voice turn cold as he threatened to burn the heart out of him.

  
     “I can’t stay here,” Sherlock confessed. “He’s already done it- killed me- and it’s only a matter of time until I finish the job.”

  
      “But you’ve got me,” John said, as though it were a perfectly reasonable argument, “remember? The two of us against the rest of the world, right?” The hurt in Sherlock’s eyes made John’s stomach feel hollow and cold. Sherlock didn’t believe him.

  
     Trembling and sweating, Sherlock gently untangled himself from John’s grasp. John let him slip through his fingers like water, completely at a loss for words and Sherlock withdrew to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  
      John sat on the edge of the tub in utter confusion until he noticed the flash of Mary’s red coat in the hallway; she was looking at him with such pity it made his insides boil with rage.

  
     “You’re an idiot,” she said affectionately, ignoring his indignant huff, “I’ve called Mycroft. He’ll have a car here for Sherlock in 15 minutes.”


	2. Chapter 2

     “He hasn’t answered a single text,” John complained over breakfast several days later.

     Sherlock hadn’t spoken a single word as he left the flat when Mycroft had come to collect him. He hadn’t even glanced at John or Mary, only murmured a few words to Mrs. Hudson at the bottom of the stairs and allowed her to gently squeeze his arm as he left out the door. John and Mary watched solemnly as he ducked into the waiting car and it pulled away. John had received word from Mycroft when Sherlock had been admitted, but hadn’t received any further information, and the not-knowing was making his skin itch.

     “Well, he won’t be allowed his phone, will he?” Mary answered sipping her tea.

     “And you know all about rehab, do you?” John scoffed and was met with a pointed look from Mary which seemed to remind him that there were volumes he didn’t know about her, and probably never would. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and took a bite of toast.

     “No,” Mary finally answered, placing a hand on the mound of her belly.

     They continued to eat in silence for a time, John pretending to be interested in the morning paper, and Mary scrolling though her phone.

     “Anyway,” Mary remarked offhandedly, “I don’t know how helpful your contacting him would be to his recovery.”

     “What do you mean?” John demanded, a little more forcefully than he had intended. Mary tapped away with her thumb on her screen for a few more minutes before looking across the breakfast table with a quirk of her eyebrow.

     “Honestly?” she asked, sounding a bit baffled.

     John scowled. He hated this feeling, like he’s the only one waiting for the penny to drop. Sherlock and Mary both did this to him. They loved to lord it over him that he was of average intelligence. He found it especially irksome that Mary had swooped in and immediately assumed she knew Sherlock better than he- especially when she had intentionally put a bullet in his chest, just months ago. And now to sit smugly across from him, adorable and soft in her robe with her morning hair, and assume she would know what was best for Sherlock.

     “Yes, Mary,” John growled, “I’d like to know what you meant. Why wouldn’t my contacting him be helpful to his recovery? Rehabilitation requires a support system, a frame work of people who will help him along, keep him from relapsing.”

     Mary looked around almost comically as though looking for anyone else to back her up.

     “You seriously can’t think of any reason that talking to you might set him off?” Mary asked, but her tone now slightly concerned.

     “No, I honestly can’t, Mary.” John snapped, “Why would talking to his best friend drive him to a relapse?”

     “Oh John,” Mary said sadly, pushing back from the table and staring with sympathetic eyes. She stood and collected her plate and put a hand on his shoulder as she passed. “Just give him some time to get his head back together,” she said, and the dishes clinked as she set them by the sink, “Let him build up his armor before going back into battle, yeah?”

     “But why would he need armor to face me?” John asked, “It’s me.”

     Mary hugged him around his shoulders from behind and rested her head on his.

     “Yes, love,” she said, placing a kiss above his ear, “that’s exactly why.”

     She moved off toward the bedroom, leaving John even more perplexed. He pushed his food around his plate with his fork, no longer hungry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get to work,” Mycroft said, “Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Sherlock.”

                In the end, Sherlock did not go to Florida, he endured the miserable week of detoxing in a super-secret facility somewhere just outside of London, thanks to Mycroft. Ridiculous, if you asked Sherlock, that a facility should cost so much more but the hospital gowns were no less irksome, the food no less bland, and the staff no less ignorant than the local A&E would have provided.  The shaking and sweating had finally abated, but he felt weak and miserable, unable to focus and unable to face John again after that embarrassing display of… emotions. Mycroft had encouraged Sherlock to stay for the full ninety days, but Sherlock was convinced that once the drugs left his system he’d be fine. He did not have a drug addiction. It was much worse than that, but unfortunately his problem was not so easily remedied by a 12 step program.

 

                “Do you think this wise, Brother dear?” Mycroft drawled as Sherlock buckled his watch. No sooner had Sherlock signed his release paperwork than he had appeared like a phantom, all disapproval.

                “I can’t keep my finger on the pulse of London from inside here, Mycroft.” Sherlock sniped. He plucked his mobile phone off the tray, the screen black and power off, he wasn’t quite ready to face the messages that surely waited for him. The thought that perhaps no messages would be waiting for him however, was even worse. Best to leave it off then. He slipped it into his pocket.

                Mycroft sighed and leaned heavily on his umbrella.

                “You know exactly what I was referring to.”

                Sherlock shrugged flippantly and pushed past Mycroft toward the exit. Of course he knew what Mycroft was referring to. He hadn’t stopped referring to his…Achilles heel since it became painfully obvious to every villain in Europe and tabloid alike… there was only one person who seemed stubbornly to ignore it, and well, thank God for that. The only thing that would hurt worse than his ignorance would be outright rejection, but even then, Sherlock wondered if some finality may be preferable.

                “It won’t get any easier I’m afraid,” He admonished.

                Sherlock braced himself against the doorframe, his pale fingers curling around the metal, and hung his head.

                “I know,” Sherlock muttered. He couldn’t bear to look at his brother now. Emotions were never Sherlock’s strong suit and now, feeling things perhaps more acutely than he ever had in his life, they threatened to overtake him. The fact that his nosy older brother could still read him so acutely was infuriating. He hadn’t felt this raw and exposed since the wedding. He’d left early, completely forgetting his violin behind and retreated to Baker Street, knowing that he’d have at least a few blissfully silent hours to ruminate on things before Mrs. Hudson would stumble in, only to find Mycroft sitting in John’s chair reading a book. All it took was one look from Mycroft for Sherlock to feel about eight years old again.  They hadn’t spoken, but they rarely ever did on “danger nights” as Mycroft so dramatically liked to call them. They sat, Sherlock poured them a drink, and they spent the rest of the evening in silence. At some point, Sherlock must have dozed off, because in the morning Mycroft was gone but his Stradivarius was on the kitchen table.

                “What do you suggest I do?” Sherlock asked.

                Mycroft inhaled, and held the breath for a moment while either pondering his response or steeling himself for it.

                “Get to work,” Mycroft said, “Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock purses his lips and nods. Mycroft is a rubbish big brother, but he is rarely ever wrong. It is the closest thing to a hug he’s received from his brother since they were children.

                As the two stepped out of the clinic to the waiting black car, Sherlock was already on his mobile, bypassing the unopened texts from John, and checking his email for a case. It was exactly the distraction he required.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is my explanation for Sherlock being on his mobile during TST- and I liked the idea that Mycroft is the one who told him that work is the best antidote to sorrow so he could later say that to Mrs. Hudson. :) Also my head-canon for John's wedding. I am a big Mycroft fan...


End file.
